


reevaluation

by deadlybride



Series: zmediaoutlet [9]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Body Image, Established Relationship, M/M, Nipple Play, Size Kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-01
Updated: 2017-02-01
Packaged: 2018-09-21 09:30:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,741
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9541592
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deadlybride/pseuds/deadlybride
Summary: Sam's attitude about his body changes.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [winchestersinthedrift](https://archiveofourown.org/users/winchestersinthedrift/gifts).



> winchestersinthedrift asked:  
>  _*sidles in* but pls write me a tiny thing about Sam's tits plssss_

When he’s a teenager Sam hates the PT—hates running, hates working out, even if he gets why it’s necessary ( _god, Dean, yes, I get it, have to be able to outrun the werewolf, shut up already, I’m going_ ), because it’s just one more thing for Dad to give that _look_ about, all disappointed and _you should be more like your brother._ It’s infuriating, but—yeah. He should be. That ship sailed a long time ago, though.

When he gets away, when he gets to Stanford, Sam doesn’t exercise for a solid month. _Rebel_ , he hears, in his head, and he grins up at his dorm-room ceiling, luxuriates in not having to run through the dawn. But—he still wakes up at six, every morning. And he’s skinny, and he just keeps getting taller, somehow, and one time he catches a look at himself in a mirror in the bathroom after econ and thinks, _Jeez, I look like a scarecrow_. When Dean was his age, he thinks, he was never—he was never this skinny, was he? So, he’s waking up at six, anyway, and one morning he sighs and then rolls out of bed, tugs on his ratty sneakers and runs, six miles, the air sharp and clean in his lungs, and he realizes—oh. He likes this. He passes the ROTC kids, jogging solemnly in their goofy fake uniforms, and he thinks, _I bet I can take them_ , and he’s sort of blindsided by the smug surge that puts a grin on his face. He starts working out every morning, again, after that. Push-ups, pull-ups, ab work, lifting at the gym. Nothing crazy, but he fills out, stretches up into himself. His skin settles easy over the new muscle, the broader shoulders. He doesn’t preen about it, but—it’s good. He can admit that he likes it.

It’s a shock, later, when he’s back with Dean, how much bigger he is. It’s not crazy, or anything—Dean’s not slight or petite, by any means—but in his head Dean’s always taller, always stronger. His big brother. But then—he puts Dean on his back and it’s _easy_. And later, through the years—he carries Dean, shields him, fights him, ( _kills him_ ), and Dean will always be the better hunter, Sam can admit that, but after enough time, Sam’s head finally accepts it. He’s bigger than Dean, in every way—and, yeah. Okay. It’s kind of—kind of good, to _know_ that. He won’t preen about it, either, but… yeah.

And then, later—

It’s a cold, cold morning, and they’re staying in a totally shitty motel because it was late enough that Dean didn’t feel like driving back to the bunker. Sam opens his eyes at six, right on schedule, and Dean’s curled in close and warm against his side, and it’d be real easy to just close his eyes and go back to sleep, but—he gets up, ignoring Dean’s little groan of protest, and goes for his run. It’s maybe thirty-five degrees outside, but he knows himself and so he just wears a t-shirt, sweatpants, and—yeah, six miles and he’s soaked in sweat, warm through, blood pumping and feeling pretty damn good. The sun’s up by the time he gets back, and he drops down to the sidewalk outside their room’s door, starts his sets. He’s just finishing his second round of push-ups when the door swings open and Dean says, “Morning, freak.”

He pushes back onto his knees, panting a little. Dean’s standing there in boxer-briefs and one of Sam’s t-shirts, cup of steaming coffee held loosely against his thigh. “It’s freezing out here,” Dean says, and yeah, his skin’s pebbling up with goosebumps right before Sam’s eyes.

“Some of us aren’t total wusses,” Sam says, still breathing sort of hard, but he stands up, stretches with a long groan, eyes closed and his fingertips brushing the metal awning over the door. God, it feels good. All the muscle aching just a little, worked hard and humming and ready to go.

Dean doesn’t come back at him, though, and Sam opens his eyes to find him with his tongue stuck a little out of the corner of his mouth, looking not at Sam’s face but a little lower. Sam frowns, and looks down at himself. Nothing on his t-shirt—it’s just an old thin grey one, soaked and stuck to his chest with sweat, and now that he’s not moving and noticing the cold his nipples are kind of waving hello, but it’s not like it’s anything—oh. He looks up, and takes a deep breath, and Dean’s eyes tighten a little, and _oh._

“You done with your Richard Simmons impression, because I wanna grab some breakfast,” Dean says, after a second, but it’s not nearly the tone he probably meant to say it in, and then he lets out an outraged little squawk because Sam’s pressing forward, pushes him back into the room and heels the door closed behind them, walks him back so his ass is up against the little half-wall divider just inside the door, Sam’s hands on his hips and his shoulders up against the diamond-patterned railing, and Sam stands up real straight, as tall as he can, so that Dean’s tilting his head back to look up at him, and— _yeah._ There it is. Sam saw it right.

“I think you like my Richard Simmons impression,” he says, and—okay, that was stupid, and Dean rolls his eyes, but he doesn’t move away. Sam takes the coffee out of his unresisting hand and balances it on the wall’s little ledge, and then he takes Dean’s hands and puts them right on Sam’s pecs, breathes deep again so they swell out, and Dean actually _groans_ , and holy shit, he can’t believe he never noticed this before.

“Dean,” he says, kind of breathless, surprised, and Dean looks up at him all dark-eyed and his mouth open a little. It’s a little bit of a blur, after that, kissing and stripping off his sweaty clothes and sliding his hands into Dean’s briefs to feel as he gets harder, gasping, and then he—he picks Dean up, hands under his thighs in a surge of muscle, showing off like he usually wouldn't, and Dean groans, he says _you ridiculous fucker_  and Sam laughs into his mouth, carries him slow and easy over to the bed and drops him onto his back, strips him naked and then props himself over him, looming with his arms stiff on either side of Dean’s shoulders.

“You love it,” he says, kinda teasing, kinda not, and Dean rolls his eyes again but he’s flushed dark red, streaking down his throat and his chest, matching the ruddy dark of his dick where he’s already hard, all the way. He slips his hands up Sam’s arms, over the bulge of his biceps where they’re straining to hold him up, over the curve of Sam’s shoulders, and then he cups his palms over Sam’s pecs, thumbs circling the budded-up points of Sam’s nipples. Sam breathes out, sharp. He’s never been all that sensitive there, but—he clenches the muscle, as much as he can in this position, and Dean bites his lip, pinches the left nipple tight between two fingers, and—”Goddamn,” Sam says, on half a breath, and his balls kind of pulse in agreement. Fuck, he’s hard.

“Like that, Sammy?” Dean says, eyes flicking up to Sam’s, and Sam drops down and kisses him, wide open and sloppy, gets their dicks tight together and hauls one of Dean’s thighs around his hip, grinds in close and hard.

“Yeah,” Sam says, finally, when he pulls back long enough to breathe, “yeah, but—Dean—” and he gets up on one elbow, shoves up on the other hand so there’s room between them, and Dean’s eyes are all pupil and they flick down again, down at Sam’s chest, and Sam says close and kind of unbelieving, he says, “Tell me, come on—tell me—” and Dean puts his hands back, fingers hot and pinching and god, it kind of fucking hurts, the pulling where he’s starting to get weird and sensitive, and this isn’t something Sam ever liked but Dean says, _finally,_  he whispers all close between them, “You’re so fucking big, Sammy,” and Sam’s hips lurch forward, his dick aching, and Dean says, “Look at you, so fuckin’—ah—your shoulders, and your dick, and your fuckin’—your chest is ridiculous, you know that, jesus, they’re so big they’re like fuckin’ _tits_ ,” and goddamn it that shouldn’t be hot but Sam shoves in and kisses him anyway, cuts him off, picks up the pace and grinds in and in and in, slipping in sweat and precome where Dean’s leaking, and he’s got his eyes squeezed shut tight and he’s breathing like he’s gonna die, and Dean grabs at one pec all rough and tight, squeezing hard, and then shoves Sam back, breaks the kiss and crunches down and gets his teeth around the other nipple, bites around it sharp and sucks hard and flicks his tongue against it and it _hurts_  and Sam comes, just like that, hips jerking hard against Dean’s, one hand holding the back of his head so he won’t stop.

Later, after he finishes Dean off and they half-heartedly clean up, they’re lying shoulder to shoulder on the mattress, sweat cooling. Sam’s got his eyes closed and he’s feeling—a little weird, maybe. There’s a light touch to his shoulder, and when he smiles the touch trails along his collarbone, down the center of his chest, then carefully swirls little circles over the swell of his left pec, touching lightly along the ring of teeth-marks that’s only barely started to fade. He’s going to have bruises, he thinks. His smile gets a little wider.

“What’re you smilin’ about,” Dean says, quiet, and when Sam finally gives in and looks at him, Dean’s sort of smiling, too, and he settles his hand flat over Sam’s chest, hiding where it hurts.

“Nothing,” Sam says, after a few seconds. He takes in a long breath and feels the weight of Dean’s hand move with it, and watches Dean’s eyes dart down to follow it. Just like that, that old curl of smugness comes back. He grins, and tucks one hand behind his head. Maybe, sometimes, it’s worth feeling a little smug about.

**Author's Note:**

> [posted here on my tumblr if you'd like to reblog](http://zmediaoutlet.tumblr.com/post/156633312449/sidles-in-but-pls-write-me-a-tiny-thing-about)


End file.
